Oh Cold Summer Night
by Mimico Florido
Summary: Canon setting. Kristoff has a drink and contemplates himself and his broken marriage. - By Philily


It's summer, and it's warm. The seasonal insects cry their little airy cries outside. Songs wailing over the night air. Even this far up their music grinded his ear drums. Peeling into his head and pulling him further into his daze. On sweet summer nights like this he would be found huddled in his bed. Twisting, turning, sweating. Trying to find comfort among the thick blankets he never wanted to change; because he never did when he was home. So he wouldn't do it here. In this castle.

Right now tho it's just him. Lazing back against a wall. Cold stone. Marble, concrete. He never really cared to know. He thought these halls magnificent once. The pomp and grandeur of royal life and politics was always above his head. Always beyond him. Even now, stuffed in the ice blue colors of Arendelle royalty, he still couldn't quite grasp it. Maybe that's how he ended up here. Facing these doors again.

He uncorked the heavy lambskin and took a nice long swig from the fluid inside. The sweet substance burned like fire on the way down. The fluid unafraid to flaunt its potency. Not like the swill in the castle cellars. You could only get quality grog like this on the poorest side of the west living district. Where the moonshiners and rum runners pray to their own strange gods and only had one king and that was the gold in their pockets and the night air. Nights like this they'd be singing. It's all so simple out there. That's what was fun, when he had the coin. Maybe he was a simple man. Too simple to grasp it all. Too simple to open the doors in front of him and face the greatest demon known to man. The truth; uncertainty had its own way of doing things tho.

It creeped up his spine. Through his suit, through his skin. Danced its ugly little fingers in his head. Gave him dread, and hope. Made him doubt, then made him doubt his doubts. It was maddening but he had his way of coping. Pop, gulp, gulp, gulp. Another toast to the madness.

That's since faded tho. He's been here enough times. Enough to run his own little theories over and over in his head. Enough to check his suspicions. On the winter nights business was slow. After all, no use in buying ice in the cold; save for the artists to craft their sculptures. On those days, it would be quiet. On those days he should be behind those doors. On the summer nights tho he would be with his crew of workmen. Running thick blocks of ice from the mountain to the city. Royal bride or not he never gave up what he knew.

So he; a simple man. He had it all around his finger. He just didn't want to believe it. So he sat out here. Countless nights from spring to summer. Listening. Trying to think of anything else. Only thinking of it. Pop, gulp, ah. He was almost there. To that place where the piss would knock out enough of his brain cells for him to stop thinking. To that sweet embrace with oblivion that would allow him to crawl away from this place. Find somewhere in the garden to pass out so he could smile through his hangover while she lied to his face. Play pretend for the good people of Arendelle. Happy couple, happy thoughts.

He could accept it tho. If she had done it differently. If she had told him beforehand. If she didn't take him for a fool. Spun those lies about the smell. The stains. Took him for a fucking fool. It's his fault tho. He let her have her lies. He played the fool. He just wished she thought better of him . . .

. . .

He could handle it if they were miserable. If they fought and broke things and hurt each other. He could take this if she hated him; perhaps she did. He didn't know. She really loved him. That was the only lie he believed. They were happy together. At least that's what she believed.

She always sounded so happy in there too. He believed that's what he hated the most. They were loud. Loud enough to make it through the doors. Perhaps loud enough to dismiss the chamber guards. That would explain why they're never there. On the real quiet nights he heard them. He heard her. Making sweet sounds of bliss and ecstasy. Fevered cries full of pleasure and fervor. Muffled and distant as the sounds were. He knew how to make his wife sing in the bedroom. He knew those sounds well. Now she was singing that song without him.

He never cried.

Not even the first time out here. No matter how much it stung. He was a man. Simple or not. He was a strong man. He had his cunning. His strength. His pride. He gave her almost everything. He wouldn't give her his dignity.

Pop, gulp. Ahh yeah. Good stuff.

He shakily took his sheathed long sword from its strap on his waist and like many a night he leaned heavily on the improvised walking stick. It was a gift from the queen. The royal smiths of the castle did good work. A swiftblade that can easily pierce and slash through flesh and bone. It was to help stave off the wolves when he was cornered. It didn't save Sven but it saved him at least.

He could feel it now. His mind being rubbed white. It was time to crawl away. Crawl away like the defeated man whose role he had assumed. He didn't tho. He noticed their noises die down in the wake of their climax. The quiet. The sweet nothings. Then his name.

His name. Muffled and distant.

His name and then laughter.

 **Laughter.**

Sweet and poisonous. He tried to swallow it and it burned on the way down. Like fire down his throat that stopped at his heart. If the boys down west could bottle this... He chuckled quietly. They were laughing at him. Slowly, quietly. He drew his sword. A fiery anger burning away the cotton in his mind. A rage that had laid dormant under the sorrow.

What happened next happened so fast. Too fast to process until after.

Those doors. Those two ton doors that he was never strong enough to move. They swung open for the first time, they swung in. She looked so surprised. Like a frightened deer. Doe eyes wide and shocked. He cupped her cheek. Quickly and gently. So soft, lovingly. The white gloved hand was coated with her bleach blonde hair. Wild and messy from the night's debauchery. He looked at her. Like he did his wife on their wedding night.

The sound of steel running through flesh grinded their ears. Yes, the smiths knew their craft. Under the front rib cage. Through the heart and up through the shoulder blade. It was a gift. A gift from her. It didn't save Sven. It hilted against her stomach.

Ice crawled up the hilt of his sword from the wound and to his hand. He didn't run. He pulled her closer. It all happened so fast. It encompassed them. So fast, she still looked so surprised and so innocent. He pulled her so close. It was almost like they were lovers. He wished it hadn't happened so fast. So he could savor that look on her face a while longer.

In the end two beings stood. Deep blue ice sculptures locked in cold, loving, eternal embrace. A sword through her heart and a smile on his face.

* * *

I posted this story for my friend, Philily.


End file.
